


Save Me (I Can't See)

by SweetBunnii



Series: The Last Alive [1]
Category: Original Work, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Hybrids, Meet-Cute, Mutants, Trans Male Character, and then kidnaps him, basil is one of the eclipse babes, cause he's no longer a girl :), geralt saves basil from big nasty wyvern, he's the last living and no one shall ever find him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:21:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27041902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetBunnii/pseuds/SweetBunnii
Summary: | Beneath the snow, two glowing green eyes stare at him as if he is a sheep and Basil whimpers. It roars again, dwarfing the wind's song and echoing throughout the valley. There is no further thought to making a run for it; he gives the wyvern a wide berth, rounding it to keep his path and sprinting forward. He makes it maybe a few meters before he feels, rather than sees, the stinger on its tail claw deep into the earth, narrowly missing his leg and shoeless feet. |
Series: The Last Alive [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1973656
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Save Me (I Can't See)

The sun has gone and disappeared behind the mountainous lands, leaving the woods dark and misted with flurries of falling snow. Admittedly, Basil had no intentions of travelling through Kaedwen into Hertch, but as it stands, the snow is thick enough to block a few centimeters in front of his nose and he does not have astonishing sight. It had been as such for nearly two days, and thankfully, no lurking monster had snuffed him out yet. He'd faintly heard the graceful flapping of thick wyvern wings in the distance earlier in the morn, although the sound hasn't returned. Even if it did, he's not certain he would be able to hear it through the enhanced whistling wind that passes between the trees and nearly deafens him. Basil would stop to camp out, had he found a decent cave or cover to rest his tired bones in. Without straying from the path of straight forward, he has no chances of coming across a miracle of a cave.

Despite Hertch being located in a forested mountainous region, there is a surprising lack of protection from the stinging snow and howling wind. It is not the cold that bothers him, though; rather, it is the fact that he cannot see the hand he pushes out in front of him to block the snow from falling into his frosted eyes. And it is because of that, that his hand smacks right into a burning warmth, covered by heavy scales which are smooth and armored to the touch. Basil withdraws his hand, looking up like he'll be able to see the creature through the white plumes. He cannot. The wyvern roars and its breath smells of sheep and human, sliming saliva slapping him in the face. It burns a little, but Basil cannot tell whether it is because it is fiery hot or because it is acidic. Wisely, he takes a couple stumbling steps back, away from the beast that may possibly make him its next meal.

Beneath the snow, two glowing green eyes stare at him as if he is a sheep and Basil whimpers. It roars again, dwarfing the wind's song and echoing throughout the valley. There is no further thought to making a run for it; he gives the wyvern a wide berth, rounding it to keep his path and sprinting forward. He makes it maybe a few meters before he feels, rather than sees, the stinger on its tail claw deep into the earth, narrowly missing his leg and shoeless feet. A terrified shriek climbs its way up his throat and out of his mouth in response, body flinching away. Basil stumbles on the snowy ground, sobbing out a curse. He keeps running up, up, up, up. Anything to escape it. The sound of wings returns, too close to him for comfort, and it screeches at him. And then, suddenly, there's the metal ringing of a sword being unsheathed, the nasty squelch of it digging into the wyvern's flesh and the horrendous wailing of it in pain.

Basil tumbles to his knees, heaving and panting. The battle does not last very long within the blizzard. Wyverns may have an enhanced sense of smell, two hundred times better than a human, but their eyesight, especially in such conditions, is worse than a human. He hears its head and body fall to the forest floor separately, a clear thunk and squish, and gushing of rancid blood. Footsteps approach him, confident and accustomed to the terrain of Hertch. Basil forces himself to tilt his head up to meet his saviour's eyes. They are amber, tinted with the slightest of gold and brown flecks, resting upon a rough, tired face. His hair is only a smidge darker than the snow, tied back with a leather string and the rest flowing wildly in the wind. The eyes are full of concern, though his expression is empty and blank, almost a little irritated, even.

"Um," Basil says eloquently, "thank you very much."

"Hm," says the man in return, nodding forth.

Pulling himself to his feet, Basil follows the man towards a beauty of a warhorse. He clamps his mouth shut to keep the noise of shock from leaving him as he is lifted onto the horse. Once his footing is right, the man gets on behind him, taking the reins and then they are moving.

"Am I being kidnapped?" Basil asks casually.

The snowstorm seems to die off a bit and the wind settles, making it easier to hear everything. That wind had been gods awful, especially with his enhanced hearing.

"These mountains aren't safe at night," the man replies bluntly.

His voice is deep and rough, growling low in his chest. Basil feels the vibrations of it in his back.

"Alright...What's your name, then. I, at least, deserve to know that. I'm Basil," he says, sniffling and wiping the frost from his brows and lashes.

"Geralt..of Rivia," the man grunts.

The traveler concludes that he is not a talker and decides to silence himself. He keeps a tight grip on the hood of his cloak, lest the wind try to surprise him and knock it off his head. If that happens... Well, he is unsure Geralt of Rivia would want to keep him on his horse, for there is two wideset wolf's ears resting atop his mess of monochromatic hair. He is about as monstrous as that wyvern back there. It is the whole reason he takes backroads and avoids villages or towns or cities, because they would only see his additions that are not human and stone him away. There was one village, in Brugge, that had brought an onslaught of pitchforks and fire and chased him halfway down the road outside of the region. Although, maybe Geralt is also mutated like him, and that's why it was so simple to kill the wyvern. He does not smell any different than a human, musky and heady and..horse-y.

Nothing about his scent says mutant, yet a mere human would never accomplish a wyvern kill on their own, or see past the blizzardous snow with such ease. Basil tries to think of what Geralt might be, but no words come to mind. How strange. He really needs to spend more time in taverns and listening in on gossipers instead of just travelling through places. The only times he has stopped in villages or towns was to bath, and then he was leaving the moment he finished. They pass over a ford, still flowing strong despite the frozen climate, and the horse heads up a path that disappears in the scenery and nightsky. He would not have seen it had he been on his own. It is steep and narrow and jerky, and somehow the horse does fine. Her footing does not slip once and her posture stays relaxed, in spite of the weather and icy trails.

At the very top of the trail is a keep, made of limestone and looking like mere ruins that had been abandoned centuries ago. It is a beautiful sight to see, even beneath the steady falling snow. The peak fades into the low lying clouds. Basil strains his neck in an attempt to see sights, but there is not much left standing as they enter the walls of the fortress. The courtyard is filled with fallen stone and scree, and strangely, there are other horses in the stables. Geralt leads his trusted steed inside it and jumps down. His hand is rough and calloused when he helps Basil down too. He unbuckles the saddle, slips it off with its blanket and throws it over the wooden supports. Her reins go next, hung onto the post and the end of the support, and she is free inside the stall.

"Where is this?" Basil finally asks, watching as the man feeds the beauty half a carrot.

"Kaer Morhen," Geralt says shortly, "it's safe here."

"Shall I be concerned about the other three men here?" He continues, once having taken a deep breath.

"No. Try not to anger them," Geralt says.

Basil files the words away. He would rather not anger _any_ of them.

"Are you a mutant, too?" He must ask, he cannot stay oh-so-curious.

"A Witcher."

Basil hums lightly, now understanding how the man could kill a wyvern in just two strikes of the sword. Witchers were practically crafted to do such a thing. He follows Geralt into the main building of the fortress, much less in ruins than the other stuff outside. The crackle of a fire and soft voices echo out into the grand hall. Geralt leads him towards them and his barefeet smack against the stone much too loud for his liking, even with his efforts to keep quiet. The voices silence as they round a corner and pass into a dining hall, larger than it needs to be for only three, now five, people. Geralt seems to know them well, greeting them with brief words and pats to the shoulder (and one very, _very_ short hug for the oldest-looking man).

Basil dare not to interrupt the moment, taking the time to look around the quite empty dining hall. There are tables still set up around the place, like they once held dozens and dozens of people. Now they smell of rotting wood and dust, and the faintest of human boys however many years ago. He trails over to the fire silently and crouches in front of it, wonders how long it has been since he has seen such an inviting flame. Any fire he sees are lit upon torches or arrowheads and aimed at him. Never is it so dormant, sitting in a fireplace for warmth and warmth alone.

"You've brought a guest," the oldest man mentions, in a gravelly, aged voice that says wise.

"I'm surprised, Geralt. You've never brought a guest before," another man says, the one with the gnarling scars of war on his face.

"Found him on the other side of the pass," Geralt grunts, "Wyvern was attacking him."

Melted snow drips off Basil's cloak and hair, thawing in front of the fire. It is too warm for his taste, but he enjoys the sentiment of it. Someone clears their throat in wait, making Basil stand and spin to face them.

"Right. Apologies, it has been far too long since I have seen such friendly fire," he says, folding his hands behind his back, "I am Basil, a traveler."

"You must've done some shit things, then, to piss people off," the third man says, blunt and sour smelling.

"It would be better had I done something to anger them." Basil tilts his head down and returns to his position at the fire.

It feels too strange to be inside a building without someone stoning him or kicking him or insulting him. He swallows thickly at the thought. If he angers any one of them, they may possibly kill him. Well, that would be an ideal end for the likes of him. He deserves death for being alive and having an extreme mutation from birth. Had he been a girl, mages would have captured him and thrown him in a tower for being born during an eclipse.

"Come," says the oldest man, polite and guarded, "eat your fill. You must be starved for travelling in such weather."

Basil wonders if he even deserves their kindness and food, but obeys the offer and seats himself next to Geralt. He knocks his hood down, because he is certain they all can smell his mutation, gratefully takes the bowl of venison stew Geralt holds out for him. It is steaming, again, too warm for his preference. He eats it anyway, slowly and carefully, savouring every bite like it will be his last meal for a month. The men stare and him and he lets them stare, ears flicking towards them at each rustle or movement.

"It is delicious, thank you," he says into the quiet with a small voice, like they might pull the situation around on him and attack.

"Vesemir's good in the kitchen, see," the scarred man explains, "rest of us are shit at tossin' something edible up."

Basil does not know if he should laugh or joke that they look like they cannot cook. He does neither, instead smiles lightly and ducks his head back down to keep eating. Once the bowl is empty, scraped free of nearly any stew residue, Basil retreats to a corner far away from the fire for it is too hot to sleep by. He ends up near a window, tethered shut to keep most of the cold out, and shifts. His body melts into his wolf seamlessly and then he's sinking down onto the limestone and resting his eyes. The voices pick up again, faint and soothing, and he falls asleep to them.


End file.
